


west of the moon, east of the sun

by nefelokokkygia



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, F/M, The Loki/Sif Big Bang, actual norse mythology, tolkien references forever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefelokokkygia/pseuds/nefelokokkygia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>loki and sif upon álfheimr, where wanderers ride dragons to the stars and the mountain caves sing where the waters of yggdrasill drip from the sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	west of the moon, east of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [loki//sif 2013 big bang](http://tenthousandwordsoflokisif.tumblr.com/); art by the wonderful [setphaserstoloveme](http://setphaserstoloveme.tumblr.com/)

_still round the corner there may wait_  
 _a new road or a secret gate_  
 _and though i oft have passed them by_  
 _a day will come at last when i_  
 _shall take the hidden paths that run_  
 _west of the moon, east of the sun_  
                             - j. r. r. tolkien – _the lord of the rings_

 

 

"I wish to travel to Álfheimr, to see the dragons again."

Loki rolls off of Sif with a groan, breath heavy as he comes down, arm thrown across his forehead in exhaustion.

"I must be losing my touch," the God pants, chest rising and falling in time with his steadying heart, "if you were that distracted the entire time."

Sif nudges him with her elbow, climbing over him, her body sprawled out over his own. The sheets and furs are stifling and heavy over them both, and the warrior kicks them off, the icy tang of the winter air soothing to her heated skin. Loki's large curtain is drawn back, and the glittering snowfall outside is like stars upon water, silent and endless.

"It is something I've been thinking of for a great while," Sif answers, carding her fingers through Loki's long and wild hair, nails scratching comfort into his skin. The God of Mischief relaxes into her touch, his heart calm against her ribs, his pulse humming strong through her body. His arms around her are warm, fingers pressing into her skin, fitting familiar into all the places she has made for him time and time again.

"And you decide to mention it now, of all times?" Loki questions, eyes half-lidded and dark, glittering with sleep and magick and the Branches of the World Tree. His fingers trail up and down her back in lazy circles, pulling the warrior slowly to rest with him.

"You are most malleable in such times as these,"'Sif half-whispers, words low in her throat and heated on his skin. Her teeth are sharp behind her lips, dripping with quiet laughter. She presses her mouth to the God's neck, his jugular alive beneath her kisses, her tongue dipping into the hollow between his collarbones.

"And you are most convincing," Loki growls, the sound half-hearted and strangled in his throat as the warrior's nails trace lightning up his sides, trailing tempting down his belly as she rises. His nails dig into her hips, pulling her down above him, keeping her steady.

"Most of all," she says against his jaw, licking her way towards his mouth, "I wish to see you ride them."

Sif's fascination with power is nothing new to Loki, the taste of her want familiar on his tongue as her mouth meets his, licking at his teeth, hungry. It is her nature, he knows; she is War, untamed and unbridled, spurred on by glory and strength and the eternal want for more. Sif is Strategy and Deceit and Cunning, Chaos in its most ordered form.

(She is all he is, and so much more.)

"As my lady commands," Loki breathes as the warrior spreads his arms wide, holding him down, lowering her teeth to his skin.

 

Sif sits by the blazing hearth in her chambers, wrapped in her warmest robe, cleaning the dagger and blade she plans to carry. She does not hope for any conflict, especially in the high mountains, far from the great cities and villages; but to be cautious is better than nothing at all, and the shine of metal polished and warm in her hand is a comfort.

Beside her is an ancient bow made of dark wood, carved with glittering runes for good fortune in the hunt and the will of her arrows to strike true. She remembers enough of their last journey to Álfheimr, recalling how the _Álfar_ did not use blades to kill their game. _The first arrow was made from a tree, the image of Yggdrasill, and so the life of prey may only be taken in the way it was given_ , she remembers, the words of the _Álfar_ forefront in her mind as she darkens the weapon with polish, smoothing cloth over its surface until it reflects the fire that burns before her. To kill an animal for food with a blade on Álfheimr made it unfit for consumption, and to eat it was a sin against the Great _Móðir_. _The sword was made for man to destroy, the arrow was made for man to survive_ , Sif thinks, and the quiver is heavy in her hands.

Loki sits at her rarely-used desk, the surface covered in tomes and scrolls, and the warrior watches as he reads, pouring over the ancient writings. All of them speak of Álfheimr's mountainous cities, far to the Realm's north, where _Álfar_ and dragons coexist; a complex society dependent upon the delicate symbiosis of two highly evolved species, and Sif knows Loki well enough to know he is absorbing all of it like a plant does the light of the sun.

“It has been centuries since we climbed the paths of the _Hithaeglir_ ,” Sif muses, turning and twisting her blade in her hand, using the gleam of the flames against its surface to check her work. When Loki offers no response she laughs inwardly, watching as his eyes dart across the pages, focus far too buried in his books to hear her. The warrior lays the weapon in its mount upon the wall with all the gentleness of a mother laying down her child, padding quietly across the liquid-black floor to where the God of Mischief reads. Her hands upon his shoulders bring him gently back to Ásgarðr, and Sif tilts his head back against her belly, running her hands down his chest, soothing the ache from his shoulders.

“You've been reading for hours, Loki,” she reminds him, and often it seems as if he forgets that time indeed passes in this Realm while his mind is busy in the words of another.

“Did you not say it has been centuries since we have visited the mountains?” the God questions, a perfectly-groomed eyebrow raised. “You may find a little preparation would do your memory wonders.”

“So you _were_ listening to me.”

“I never said I wasn't.”

“ _Snake_ ,” she teases, nails digging into his scalp, scratching sparks over his skin. The warrior leans down and presses her lips to his, teeth nipping at his bottom lip as his hands bury in her hair, long and dark and guardian around them.

“Have you ever known me to be anything less?” the God breathes against her mouth, and the growl she pours down his throat is all the answer he needs.

 

Sif wakes to the sound of howling wolves, their cries echoing over Ásgarðr's plains from deep within the mountain ranges.

The warrior has long been a light sleeper, and the animals' howls are no bane to her as she finds herself wide awake, sitting up and tossing away the sheets and furs. Loki is still asleep beside her, curled cat-like and quiet beneath the blankets, and she slips from the bed on silent feet, careful not to wake him.

The marble is ice beneath her toes, splattered with veins of platinum that glitter and glow in the light of the Realm's moons. Wrapping her robe around her shoulders, Sif makes her way to the desk in the corner, covered in tomes and scrolls marked with Loki's messy runes. She traces the lines with her fingers, a reminder of the Trickster left behind long after the books are returned to their shelves.

Sif flips through the tome, countless illustrations of Álfheimr's dragons soaring over the pages, breathing fire and ice and crackling lightning beneath their claws. Her memories of the creatures are few and far between, faded with time and the turns of the stars.

The book is heavy in her hands as she sits, and the dragons come alive beneath her fingers until the first rays of Ásgarðr's suns melt over the horizon.

 

The fur of her cloak is soft against her jaw as Sif fastens the clasp, brilliant white against the silver fabric that drapes over her shoulders and melts down her back. The _shink_ of her blade as she slots it into its sheath is pinprick to her ears, a comforting weight on her hip amidst cloth and metal. The warrior tucks a dagger into the leather at the small of her back, running her hands over the fabric and between the spaces of her armor, leaving no part of her body unchecked to the cold. Sif cards her hands through her hair, long and dark and most of it left to curl around her jaw in waves and braids, the rest pulled back into a horse-tail. Snow drifts lazily down from the morning clouds, and when Lóriði licks it from her cloak she laughs, petting the stallion's velvety nose.

Sif clips the worn leather of her quiver around her back, feeling the soft feathers of the arrows brush against her cheek. It has been long since the Yule Hunt, the last time she used the weapons, but she is no less out of practice as she hooks the string over her shoulder. She prefers the smooth metal of a dagger warmed by her hand to the cool wood of a bow, but each has its own charm and adds its own thrill to a battle or a hunt, and the warrior will never turn down a weapon.

She eyes Loki beside her, plated in metal and leather like her own, black and green and shimmering gold. The horns of his helm are sharp, curved like daggers above his brow and in them Sif sees a stag, flickering dark behind his eyes and powerful in his teeth. The Trickster's hands slide gently over Svaðilfari's coat, tongue clicking soothingly as the mare nudges her nose against his horns and licks a the feathers of his own arrows, eager to ride though he has not yet fastened all of his provisions to her saddle.

Lóriði nuzzles her hair in equal impatience, the chocolate-colored stallion clapping his hooves against the snow-covered stone of the palace grounds. The warrior climbs into the saddle, running her hands through his mane and sighing soothing sounds into his ears. The glitter of the snowfall is diamond to her eyes, and when she turns to Loki, his eyes are pinpoint in the frost, inky runes scratched into the surface of his skin.

The God of Mischief is powerful upon the mare, shoulders hard and horns mounted above his brow, and Sif licks her teeth at the thought of him upon a dragon.

 

The ride to the Bifröst is quiet and calm, both riders letting the horses trot beside each other, the only sounds their tails swishing in the snowfall. The structure is a gleaming globe of gold, carved with runes and curves that melt into the path of the diamond-dust glass beneath them. Its molten, glimmering outside gives way to the inky black of the inside, its walls slipping into the edges of the cosmos around them. The Nine Realms are carved in gleaming teal inside the Bifröst , a pillar of glass rising to the ceiling, housing the Tesseract.

Sif watches Loki's eyes widen ever-so when his gaze settles upon the cube, and she remembers. Its light flashes behind his eyes, but only a reflection, and she speaks.

“Brother Heimdallr,” the warrior begins. “We have need of the Bifröst.”

The guardian does not turn from his watch of the worlds, but both riders know he need not face them in order to see them.

“You wish to go to the _Hithaeglir_ ,” his voice is rich in the large chamber, endless in the liquid-black that surrounds them all. “You seek the dragon-cities.”

“It is known,” Sif replies. The words are ancient on her tongue, learned upon her mother's knee.

“It is done,” the guardian responds, and his voice echoes in the chamber where it had not done so before. The _shink_ of Heimdallr's sword in its slot cuts across her ears, and Sif watches as the Realms realign, Álfheimr glittering with the light of the Tesseract. Through the portal she can see snow-covered mountains and lush forests, the bonfires of villages burning through her eyes and the cries of dragons soaring in her ears.

The portal is like water down her neck, mercury and liquid over her shoulders, and it seeps beneath her armor like a flood, carrying her to the mountains.

 

When the warrior opens her eyes, everything is white.

Snow sparkles from the afternoon sky, a cascade of diamonds in the light of Álfheimr's two suns. Her pupils shrink to needlepoints, and when she turns to Loki his own are long and thin, cat-like and sharp.

“Are you sure it's not too bright, Loki?” Sif teases, certain that vanity was not the only reason he chose to wear his horned helm.

“There are things that make even a God go blind.”

Sif laughs, butting her head against the gold over his jaw, a yelp ripped from her throat when the horned God tangles his fingers in her hair and presses his lips to hers. He tastes like mint and fir trees and fire, his teeth sharp against her skin. His mouth is wet and warm, prickled cold by the snow caught between their tongues.

He nips her bottom lip, a growl low and heated in his throat as he pushes her back upright onto Lóriði's saddle. With a kick of his feet the God of Mischief barks for Svaðilfari to gallop, his forest-green cape trailing behind him in the snows, an unspoken invitation for her to follow.

 

Sif does not know how long they ride through the forests and the trails of the mountains, winding up the sides and galloping over flat fields painted white with snow. Memories of the last time they had come to these lands flood over the warrior, when she and the Warriors Three and the brothers roamed the forests for game and rode the dragons over the eastern seas.

The slow slopes and level fields give way to rocky terrain, crags and stone jutting out into the cliffs; the vivid pages of Loki's books flicker behind her eyes, telling how the dragons nest deep within the mountains, making their homes in the rocky cliffs and fjords, coexisting with the _Álfar_ in the valleys below.

The roaring echoes of wings and howls in the distance stand her hair on end, and the warrior feels Lóriði speed his pace, eager to catch the sounds.

“We're not far now,” Loki calls back to her, a few horse-lengths ahead. She hears him click to Svaðilfari, slowing the mare to a stop as Sif guides her stallion beside her. The horned God holds out a length of leather to the warrior and she fastens it to Lóriði's reins, so that neither can stray too far from the other in the howling winds and growing darkness.

“The snows are getting thicker and the suns dimmer,” she says, brushing the flakes from the fur of her cloak, only for it to be covered again in moments. “Are you sure you can get us around the mountain before nightfall?”

“Lady Sif, there is a reason I read the books and you polish the blades,” Loki replies, Mischief sly and slick on his tongue. If they weren't in the middle of a snowstorm on Álfheimr she would dig her gloved fingers into his collar, slide them between the plates of his armor as her teeth bit his lips redder than the cold could make them even now.

“Are you admitting you are in need of protecting?” she grins, eyes alight with frost and the fire in her belly that flickers whenever she meets his cat-eyed gaze.

“I am in need of many things, dear Sif,” he answers, and the horns upon his head are like antlers, though Sif knows far better than to think him prey. His teeth are canine and bone-white in the fading light, and the warrior can see the setting suns in his eyes, the color of his magick brilliant and burning. “Protection is not one of them.”

“You'll need it once you find me a warm room and a bed to tie you to, Silvertongue.”

Loki only turns towards their path, an entirely too-satisfied smile painted upon the white of his face, his eyes glittering green and flecked with gold as his magick helps him find their way.

 

It feels like hours more that they walk, carefully and slowly, beneath overhangs and around thin edges, down between crags and up over outcrops of rocks. Sif can feel herself tiring though the suns have not yet dipped fully beneath the horizon, and she envies her stallion for his endless stamina, keeping up with Loki's mare as if the animals were trotting over Ásgarðr's golden fields instead of around a mountain.

“Was there no way for Heimdallr to put us any closer to the valleys than he did?” Sif calls over the deadening silence of the snows.

“Is the great Warrior Sif whining?” Loki asks, voice dripping with feigned shock and surprise.

“I do not _whine_ ,” she snaps, shaking the snow from her hair in a futile effort to stay dry, pulling the frozen fur higher around her jaw for all the good it will do her. This weather is hardly enough to kill a child of Ásgarðr, but that doesn't mean the bite of the cold is any less deep into her bones.

“The Bifröst is assigned a certain number of locations in each Realm that Heimdallr may deposit travelers so that they may reach their destination,” Loki explains, and Sif listens. (She didn't ask because she wants to know, but because the silence of the snowstorm is deafening and she would never turn down an opportunity to listen the the God of Mischief's voice.)

“Yggdrasill forbid Ásgarðr loses control of the Bifröst in an invasion or war, it can only be programmed to certain areas of each Realm, where an invading army would not be close to any cities and would be seen far before they reached their destination. Heimdallr himself can certainly send someone wherever they want, but most Realms don't want travelers landing from the sky in market squares or outside their citizens' homes.”

“I know,” Sif sighs. “I was only being rhetorical, Loki.”

“Are you admitting that you were whining, then?” he jibes at her, and Sif is far too tired to spear him back with a comment equally as sharp.

“Fear not, Sif, the valley is just below us.”

The thought rejuvinates the warrior like the prickle of fire on her skin, and as Loki leads them beneath the overhangs of rock and over the stones, the snows begin to settle, glittering whirls of white giving way to a gentle mist of flakes.

The valley below is wide and deep, drenched with snow and slathered with thick forest, the trees dark like ink flicked onto paper. Bonfires burn in village centers, and from the distance they appear like tiny candles on a lake of white, melting away the snows around them. The jagged edges of the valley rise into the sky, up the sides of the mountains where more fires burn, more trees grow like arms to the moons, and the echoing calls of dragons are wild in Sif's ears, ringing powerful in her bones.

“It is like we were here only a few moons ago, not a few hundred summers,” the warrior comments, as Loki clicks to Svaðilfari, guiding them both down the path towards the valley floor.

“The same could be said of Ásgarðr, for all the Realm has changed since the Time of the Beginning,” the Trickster says, and Sif finds herself in agreement. “The _Álfar_ are an enduring, ancient race; their ways have been the same for countless millenia, since their ancestors laid down the first societies and traditions. Change is not something the _Álfar_ are wont to do, unless absolutely necessary.”

“Are we speaking of Ásgarðr or Álfheimr?” Sif quips, a smile cutting across her face at how familiar this society is to their own.

“I don't think it matters much,” Loki answers, guiding his mare around the rocks on the valley floor, heading for the closest village. “ _Álfar_ are not like the _Jǫtnar_ or the _Eldjǫtnar_ , who fight amongst themselves and others, wage war, and are constantly up-ending their surroundings, never staying still and always on the hunt.”

Sif's reply is cut short by a shrill howl, and in the snows she can see the shining shapes of wolves darting towards them. The _landvættir_ , spirits that protect the forests of all Realms and warn of intruders and those with ill intent. The ethereal animals circle the riders, and Sif can feel magick sliding down her neck, pooling at Lóriði's hooves.

“We come in peace, to see the dragon-cities,” the warrior calls to the wolves, offering her hand to them. One of the winter-white creatures sniffs her fingers; its tongue on her palm stings like crushed mint on her tongue, and its eyes are greener than any forest she has ever seen, burning into her own and spreading warmth down her skin. She can feel its gaze, piercing and all-knowing, searching her mind for even the barest hint of intent that would bring ill will to the valley.

The sharp sound of the wolves' howls cuts through her ears like a blade, and the _landvættir_ dart away into the snows, melting back into the forests and the night from which they came. The scent of magick is like lightning in the air, charged and crackling against Sif's cold-reddened cheeks. When she turns to Loki his eyes are alight, glimmering green and gold, mouth parted like a field-cat on the hunt, power dripping from his teeth.

Sif follows him into the arches of the forest, his magick trailing behind him like a scent, heated beneath her fingertips and liquid down her spine.

 

The snows have stopped, the quiet calm of the forest deafening as the warrior and the Trickster make their way to the nearest village, led by the glow of the flora and fauna. The bioluminescence is comforting in the otherwise dark, impenetrable forest, glittering flowers in shades of blue and green pinpoint like stars, splashes of paint on an inky, liquid canvas. Fireflies glow around Sif's hair like tiny lanterns, and everywhere their horses step glows like flickering flame, steady and shining. The warrior doesn't remember the sight being so bright and beautiful the last time, but thinks perhaps her memories are too dulled by time and like most things on Álfheimr, she is the only thing that has changed.

Soon the bright glow of bonfires and lanterns come into view amidst the thick trees, and Sif feels Lóriði speed his pace, passing Loki and Svaðilfari in his eagerness to reach the village. Sif laughs as she lets him run, equally as impatient to reach a warm bed and a hearty meal herself. She hears Loki's mare give chase, and when both horses reach the borders of the village they slow, trotting through the wide streets, formed from flattened leaves and soil worn from thousands of years of pounding feet.

The villages of the _Álfar_ are just as Sif remembers them, houses and structures built into the ancient trees, stairs spiraling up great trunks, bridges of glittering stones and wood weaved together with vines to link every location to another. The warrior feels connected to the forests in a way that she doesn't in Ásgarðr, every tree an extension of another, shaped and grown and carved into whatever the _Álfar_ need them to be. Temples and buildings and homes rise from the ground, glass and bricks and precious gems built amidst the trees, never instead of them; Sif admires the way the _Álfar_ build their worlds around the ones that are already in place.

 _Álfar_ of all kinds greet them and pass them by, bejeweled and decorated with marks of the forest, and Sif sees flower crowns and helms of antlers not unlike Loki's own, flowing dresses and long coats, men and women upon horses adorned in equal brilliance.

Stables are not difficult to find, and Loki speaks with the owner in soft tones; the only thing that gives away their origin is their currency, but out here they are only Loki and Sif, travelers from another Realm seeking shelter for the night on their way to the dragon-cities. To the _Álfar_ they are nameless and deedless; she is not the holder of Dominion over War and Glory, and Loki is not the Father of Lies and Bringer of Discord. They are anyone they wish to be, and in such freedom Sif finds peace, a relief from the burden of duty and name, the weight upon her shoulders lightened for a time.

The inn they find is quiet and warm, high in the trees across vine bridges and around the spirals of great trunks. Its glass and gems glitter in the snow-covered forest, and Sif throws herself onto the large bed, not caring in the slightest that all of her armor and weapons are still attached.

“I will not set foot on that bed until you remove all of your armaments,” Loki says in an authoritative tone that just makes Sif giggle into the pillow.

“If that means I get the entire bed to myself, I see no problem then,” she snickers. “Besides, the rest of us have to do actual work and remove our things; we can't all just magick our worries away,” she pouts, watching as all of Loki's armor and gold melts quite literally off his body and onto the floor to disappear. He makes his way to her, left only in his customary leathers and cloth as she lifts her bow over her head and unhooks the strap of her quiver, setting them down on the large table. She slips her dagger from the small of her back and pulls the sheath of her sword from her hip, the pile of weapons quickly forgotten as Loki climbs over her, running his hands through the fan of her hair on the pillows.

Before she can speak the God of Mischief catches her mouth in a kiss, long and hot and heavy on her tongue, licking her teeth and nipping at her bottom lip. Loki is Silvertongue for more than just his words, and Sif threads her fingers through the tails and braids of his hair, crushing his mouth to hers, her tongue tracing the line of his sharp teeth, pulling him in. He growls low, pouring the sound down her throat where she can feel it in her chest as it travels down her belly, sparking fire wet and warm between her legs. His hands trail down her sides, over the plates of her armor and the leather beneath them, curving over her hips and down her thighs.

Sif moves beneath the Trickster, sliding her foot up his leg, pulling him close, feeling him hard for her even though layers of leather and cloth and she laughs into his teeth, licking desire from his mouth. His hips press into hers, crushing her to the sheets, and she buries a snicker in his hair when the high collar of her armor prevents him from kissing his way down her neck.

With a yelp Loki flips them over, settling the warrior on his lap, pulling her hips down into his own and she circles them, slowly, far too slowly for his liking, her hands pressing down on his chest. One of his hands slides down her cheek, fingers tracing the line of her jaw and she pauses in her torturous teasing, her deer-colored eyes meeting his own. The God trails a finger slowly down between her collarbones, her clothes and armor melting from her body as he reaches between her legs, drawing a sigh from her lips as the liquid feeling of his magick follows her clothes to the floor. She would usually be angry at him for melting her most treasured armor off of her, but as it reforms on the stands in the corner of her eye she can't be angry, not when his fingers are sliding slick over her entrance and she is finally, finally naked.

Unwilling to let the Trickster have all of the fun, Sif presses her lips to his cheek, licking and biting at the juncture of his jaw and neck, the space beneath his ear that makes his hands hold her hips with an iron grip, his fingers digging into her skin. One of her hands tilts his head back and he groans, her teeth scraping over his collarbone as she wrenches his high collar to the side, seeking the rarely-bared skin underneath. Sif presses a finger to the space of his throat, just as he had done to her, impatient.

“Off, _now_.”

“How demanding,” Loki breathes, a sly smile on his face, erased only by the bared points of the warrior's teeth and her other hand between his legs. She feels the leather and cloth beneath her fingers begin to melt away in that curious sensation she cannot describe even after centuries of seeing it, sliding her finger to where she sits unclothed above him. Before the material can slide to the floor completely she digs her hands into his chest, pulling the strange not-liquid away from his skin. It hangs from her fingers, spun in patterns like a spider's web, viscous like blood though it does not stain her hands or splatter onto the sheets. The warrior trails her hands over her body, the blacks and greens and golds blending together like paints on a palette and it feels like she is painting herself in ink, in Loki's magick, the only way she can.

The God of Mischief's eyes are wide and dark, glittering with the magick Sif holds in her hands, has strung across her body like the splashes of nebulae in the cosmos. His nails trace lightning down her skin, through the not-liquid, his thought made word made flesh, slick and wet between them. Loki growls low in his throat, pulling himself up and crushing the warrior's mouth to his, willing away the inky lines as they slide to the floor, his clothes slipping into nothingness. His teeth scrape against her skin, biting and sucking, leaving marks where his magick dripped over her skin, his power made tangible over her body.

Sif's fascination with power never ceases to ignite the Trickster, and he lavishes his kisses down her chest, nipping at her breasts and drawing a nipple into his mouth, between his teeth. Sif's breath comes sharp in her lungs, and her hands shove his face further against her skin, wanting and needing more, her hips grinding, digging into his. His mouth on her is liquid hot and fervent, drawing gasps and moans from her throat like her hands drew his magick down her body. His fingers trail down her back, following the sharp lines of her shoulder blades and flattening over the solid curves of her hips, reliving the memory of her body against his, lethally, brilliantly strong.

His fingers flicker over her belly in the silent spell to keep her childless, the words invisible on his tongue as he presses his lips to her chest. Sif scratches her nails down his back and Loki arches into her body, her touch lightning over his skin and she pushes him down roughly into the pillows and sheets, positioning herself over him, sinking onto him and it is all he can do not to melt to the floor like his magick, breathless and undone.

Loki's hands reach for her hips but the warrior pushes them away, beside his head, linking her fingers with his own and holding him down. He could break her hold if he wished, but he lets her take control, circling her hips with teasing slowness, lifting herself up on her knees before slamming down, knocking the air from his lungs and shaking the stars behind his eyes. Sif's pace is varied, unpredictable; just when he thinks his he can rise to meet her she pushes him down, breaks his concentration with her teeth on his jugular and her tongue in the space of his throat, drives him further into her frenzy.

The God of Mischief is red-faced and broken beneath her and the sight is almost enough to drive her over the edge, his breath ragged and his voice raw in his throat. Sif tangles a hand in his hair, slick with sweat as she brushes it from his face, and in his eyes she can see magick and the Great _Móðir_ , everything and nothing, all he has been before and all he will be now. The warrior tilts her body forward, rutting against him like an animal, feral and needing, letting his body do the work while she pins his fingers to the sheets. His bottom lip is bit between his teeth, pointed and sharp and brilliant white against the reddened skin and she kisses him, pouring her cries into his mouth as she comes, curving into him, the glitter of snow and stars prickling behind her eyes.

Sif moves above him still, and she knows Loki is close when the God of Mischief whimpers into her mouth, head thrown back on the pillow in something that looks like pain and pleasure melted liquid into one. His skin is slick with sweat and his hair is wild and untamed, braids half-undone and the dark curtain fanned out in tangles and waves over the pillow. Her name is broken in his mouth, a sharp cry torn from his throat as he comes, and Sif holds him down, wordless as he breaks beneath her body.

The warrior presses her lips to Loki's, running her fingers through his hair to calm him as he comes down, flushed and feral and burning with magick; she can feel it tingling beneath his skin and see it glittering in his eyes, warm around her neck and dripping like sweat down her spine as she kisses him. She doesn't know how long she holds him, his breath slowing and steady in her ear as she cradles him close, lips touched soft to his forehead.

Through the window she can see the snow shimmering as it falls, the Branches of the World Tree glowing high in the inky black of the cosmos as they do in the God of Mischief's eyes, and for the night, all is at peace.

 

The wide field before Sif is white and flat, a clearing amidst the thick forests of the valley. Her cloak flickers in the wind, the soft fur warm on her jaw now that the snows have stopped for the moment. The howls of dragons echo in her ears, far to the tops of the mountains, she shivers from more than just the cold at the sound. Groups of _Álfar_ wait around them to be taken up, scattered in clusters as they wait for family and friends to arrive, traders and travelers on their way from the high lands.

“The cities are accessible only by dragon from this side of the mountains,” Loki explains, pulling the leather of his gloves tighter over his fingers. “There are paths on the other side of the mountain range, but the valley walls are far too steep to travel safely on foot, let alone on horseback.”

A great flap of wings sounds from above, and Sif's eyes widen at the sight of countless dragons careening across the skies, flickering out of the clouds and down over the forests. Large scaled beasts with fire and ice on their tongues hold entire families, small furred ones carry a single rider, and all shapes and sizes and colors in between. Their cries are music in her ears like ancient songs, never forgotten no matter how many turns of the stars come between them.

Sif covers her eyes as a herd of the creatures land, their wings whipping the snow up in fierce swirling gusts as they settle on the grassy field. Children run to their parents, friends bow to each other in greeting, and the dragons flap their wings and bunt heads playfully. They're even more beautiful in person, her memories of them painted anew, and she turns to Loki, eager for the one they will ride to the mountain villages.

The God of Mischief leads her toward a gold and bronze dragon, slightly larger than a stallion, mounted by an _Álfr_  with a long braid of silver hair and a large cloak of fur. Loki converses with him, handing over payment for the ride as Sif runs her hand along the dragon's snout, covered with downy fur and velvet to the touch. The creature nudges its head into her hair, licking at her cheek and the rough feeling of its tongue is like being groomed by a cat, and she laughs.

The rider motions for the dragon to lie down, the Alltongue from his mouth thick with the accent of Álfheimr. The Trickster helps her up onto its back, pushing himself up behind her, and the feeling of flying sends Sif to the stars.

The chill of the mountain air is icy and glittering on Sif's skin, reddening her cheeks and drying her lips but the warrior can't bring herself to care in the least. Loki's hands hold her steady as she grips the rider's saddle, and the weightless sensation is like water, pulling and pushing and careening her through the sky as they climb the clouds. Álfheimr is brilliant beneath them, valleys and plains and forests stretching out across the planet, rivers cutting through the landscape into lakes and oceans, the snows of the north melting away to the green of distant lands, villages and cities speckled across them like paint flicked from a brush. Álfheimr's twin suns glitter like novas above the clouds, and when the stone-gray cliffs give way to forest-green, the dragon cities dotted along the ridges and faces of the mountain, Sif feels closer to the top of the World Tree than Ásgarðr has ever been.

 

 

 

The flight is over far too quickly, and when Sif's feet touch the rocky ground her vision dances, still feeling the swooping movements of the dragon, even as she thanks the rider and watches him guide the creature back down the the valley to ferry others to the top.

Beside her Loki's pupils are cat-thin and sharp in the brighter light, and she knows her own are needlepoints, the vibrance different from Ásgarðr's single sun but no worse on her eyes. The walls of the mountains are jagged and rocky, and everywhere dragons sunbathe on the outcrops or groom each other in the cliff-sides, young ones chasing each other through the skies and the very smallest of the creatures flitting through the village like hounds and cats.

“It's just as incredible as I remember, Loki,” she breathes, turning every which way to take in the sights and sounds: men and women flying to settlements on distant cliff-sides and children chasing tiny dragons through the streets, the creatures nudging and drawing in villagers to merchants and vendors as they pass by.

“I want to fly, and see the seas and the shores,” she continues, and there are few things in the cosmos that can sweeten Loki to supplication but Sif's wide eyes and dazzling smile are some of them. The Trickster turns, and the warrior watches his eye glitter with magick, glowing low in their depths.

A glimmering gold dragon leaps from the outcrop beside them, its tail long and thin, a tuft of cream-colored hair waving in the winds of the peaks. Its eyes are the blue of sapphires and oceans, flecked with green, a mane of hair spiking down its neck like a mare. Its ears are pointed and wide, and glittering white horns curve back above its eyes, daggered and curved like the _hreindýri_ of Ásgarðr. It stands heads taller than even Loki, and its wings spread wide, the creature eager to fly.

“Dragons are beings born of magick and the mountains, deep within the caves where the waters of Yggdrasill are said to drip from the sky,” Loki begins, rubbing his hands over the dragon's snout as it nudges the horns of his helm with its own. “The _Álfar_ are a people rooted in the same magick that flows within the planet, and only those who can wield it may call freely to them.”

“Last time we paid to take the stables' dragons out to the sea,” Sif recalls.

“ _You_ may have,” Loki responds with a self-satisfied smile that makes Sif want to punch it from his mouth and kiss him all at once.

“ _Snake_ ,” she teases, petting the golden creature's nose and pressing a kiss to its scales, feeling fire and lightning beneath its skin, power between its teeth. The dragon lies down at Loki's telepathic request, its eyes glittering with the same magick as the Trickster's, and Sif wishes she could know what it's like to communicate with another in the most ancient of ways.

The dragon's body is firm beneath her, like a horse without a saddle, and she holds fast to Loki's body, her fingers digging into the leather of his longcoat and her legs squeezing the dragon's side. The God of Mischief guides the dragon from the stones, and its wings are like thunderclaps in Sif's ears, steady and rhythmic, like the pounding feet of soliders or the drums of War, buried inside her bones.

Loki leads the horned dragon past the high peaks of neighboring villages, cities on the edges of cliffs and down between mountain walls. The thick forests give way to sparse brush and scraggly trees, stony ridges covered in snow, great crevices in the mountainsides leading deep into the caves and inner ranges of the surface. The peaks soon begin to lessen, and the land transforms into fjords and fields again, hills and plains sloping down into forests that slip into sands and shore.

The seas are vast and glittering beneath them, and Sif marvels at the wide expanse of water, unending over the horizon. The dragon glides down towards the sea at Loki's silent request, and its surface becomes clear as they fly only feet above it, hundreds of fish and seahorses and other creatures flickering by. The dragon tilts its wings into the water, playfully splashing a misty curtain onto its riders and Sif laughs, shaking her head to rid the droplets from her hair and soaking Loki even more in the process.

Sif wonders if Loki will land them on the shore, the coastal cities of the _Álfar_ known for their reefs and gem caves and delicacies from the sea. But soon the dragon pulls away from the water, looping around and returning to the mountains, Loki taking the creature deeper into the fjords and ranges than Sif ever remembers traveling. The warm winds of the shores give way to the chill of the snowy air and Sif pulls her cloak tighter, grateful for the leather and clothed heated by her body and the thick plates of her armor that shield her from the cold.

After what seems like hours, Loki lands the golden dragon upon a tall cliff near the peak of one of the mountains, before the entrance to a cave, glittering and shimmering with water and gemstones.

“We did not visit the caves last time,” Sif comments, slipping off the side of the dragon and onto the gray slate and rocks. The Trickster follows suit, and the warrior is surprised when the horned dragon follows them both into the mouth, lit by curtains of light that peek through the cracks and holes in the ceiling. Water trickles down the walls, the smooth surfaces carved out by the dragons who nest deep in the caverns and inner ranges of the mountains. The liquid glitters even in the darkest of corners, and it reminds Sif of the bioluminescent forests that cover Álfheimr's surface. The rushing sound of waterfalls echoes in the distance, deeper within the caves, and Loki leads her upward over winding paths glittering with water and crystals sprouting from the rocks like shining bushes.

Soon they come to a dead end, light flickering from the jagged, high ceiling onto a pool of water made diamond-like and bright beneath the surface. The scent of magick that lingered at the cave mouth is overpowering here, stinging Sif's nose like mint and summer's lightning when it strikes the ground.

“The legends are true,” Loki says, the first words spoken since they entered the caverns, and Sif feels the dragon's nose rubbing against her cheek, its tail curled round her feet.

“The waters of Yggdrasill drip from the sky,” she repeats his earlier words, following the walls of the chamber, running her hands through the rivulets of water, and when she touches them it is like diamonds melting on her hands, pinpricks of fire beneath her skin. “Álfheimr is the highest Realm on the Great _Móðir_ 's Branches,” Sif murmurs, and her eyes widen ever-so in realization. “Can you walk the Branches from here, Loki?”

“ _Já_ ,” the God of Mischief replies, and in his eyes Sif can see the glittering white of the World Tree, reflected in the pool.

“Show me.”

Loki kneels at the edge of the crystalline water and motions for the warrior to do the same, and she watches as his hands dip into the inky black and swirling white.

“Drink,” he tells her, and when she does, the water is cold fire on her tongue, and the world disappears.

 

Sif opens her eyes.

Everything is white.

Sif blinks rapidly, willing her eyes to adjust. Gradually the overwhelming light softens behind her eyelids, and she opens them.

Everything is burning, brilliant white, _blinding_.

" _Móðir_ Yggdrasill," Sif breathes, the name instinctual on her tongue, reverent between her teeth. The World Tree's surface glitters white as if cut from the most brilliant of diamonds, lined with age and worn with time. Her Branches tangle and twist, upwards and out, spreading endless and wide across the cosmos, above and beneath them both. Her great trunk seems to be made of stars and dust, shimmering against the inky skies and clouds of vibrant color far beyond. The gentle sound of moving water ripples through the silence, lapping at Sif's ears, and she turns to Loki in awe. His mouth is set in a thin line, unreadable, eyes verdant and pinpoint with magick in the brightness of the World Tree's glow.

The God of Mischief says nothing, only his fingers wrapping around her wrist to guide the warrior through the silvery foliage. She is almost hesitant to walk, afraid the hard soles of her boots will crush the tiny, glittering flora beneath her feet. She knows not where they stand on Yggdrasill's edges, can see no Realms as Loki leads her silent down shining Branches and between twisting boughs, through curtains of snow-white leaves.

Sif cannot tell how much time has passed, how many minutes or hours they have spent winding their way down the silvery Tree. She feels no worse for the wear, her feet touching down as strong now as they had the first time. The Trickster remains as silent as she, leading her through the glittering foliage as if he has walked it countless times, knowing by heart the path he leads her down.

Finally the God of Mischief slows his steps, pulling aside a thick curtain of diamond-bright leaves to reveal a tiny clearing, flat and surrounded by Branches twisting eternally into the cosmos spread out before them both. A small pool lies in the center, rippling gently with water flowing from the World Tree's uppermost Branches down to the larger, sparser ones far below. It is the same water that has trickled down around them since their first steps amongst Yggdrasill's hold, the waters of the Allthing that glittered in the pool and carried them to her Branches.

Loki leads her towards the pool, but stops short of its edges, an arm paused before Sif as if to shield her.

A flicker. Horns. Her mother's voice down her neck.

A great stag makes itself known from within the thick gathering of boughs before them, its antlers scraping against the glittering bark as it comes into their view. Sif eyes the animal warily, her mother's stories echoing in her mind and the four sacred names tickling the back of her throat. It moves silent into the pool, water dripping ancient and glittering from its limbs as its head bows, drinking of the liquid life beneath it.

" _Duraþrór_."

Sif turns to the God of Mischief and watches his eyes, unfocused and unending, watches him as he steps forward towards the stag, his gloves melting away into nothingness. Its ears perk up at his voice, eyes unblinking and body statue-still as Loki approaches, palm held up-turned in the space between them. The deer dips its head to his hand as he nears, sniffing, water trickling from its fur into Loki's palm. The warrior watches his lips part, breath drawn deep as the water touches him, and still she wonders.

The stag allows Loki to touch it, the God of Mischief silent as his hand rubs at its cheek in greeting and comfort. Sif watches his eyes close, head tilted down, the golden horns of his helm touching the great antlers of the ethereal deer, his own form of respect for the ancient being before him.

The stag's gaze meets her own and Sif bows her head, unsure until she feels the God's fingers wrap around her wrist, gently pulling her forward. The deer's antlers are heads taller than herself, intimidating and beautiful in their curves and twists, but the animal's eyes are wide and deep, soothing when she meets them once more. Loki guides her hand to touch its fur, luxuriously soft and warm beneath her fingers, and when the stag tilts its cheek into her touch she cannot help the smile that spreads across her face, water trickling from its chin to wet her fingers.

Sif stands before _Duraþrór_ , one of the four stags of _móðir_ Yggdrasill who eat of her leaves and drink of her waters, and in this moment she is eternal, spread across the cosmos like the World Tree's Branches, unending.s

The stag nuzzles her hand before meeting each of their gazes, eyes wide with the glimmer of Yggdrasill's glow, filled with the shadows of her ancient secrets. It turns, stepping slowly through the pool, and Sif watches in awe as its body begins to fade; its antlers touch upon the glittering bark as the stag melts into the World Tree, one with the Allthing as it continues its eternal journey through her Branches.

The water on Sif's fingers is icy, and she brings it to her mouth, curious. Something flickers in the back of her mind, hovering like fireflies in _miðsumarr_ , the ghost of touch brushing beneath her skin. Sif kneels at the edge of the water, depths ice-cold and prickling on her skin as she drinks, dripping silent through her fingers. Rage and love and all things in-between prickle on her tongue, liquid life to her throat: images, memories, shades of emotion, and then does she realize the water that gives her life carries it as well, flowing endlessly between _móðir_ Yggdrasill's branches, made of the same energy that begets all of life and to which all life returns at its end, renewed endlessly in the cycle of all things that have been and ever shall be, world without end.

Loki kneels beside her and the water burns cold on Sif's tongue, speaking to her, calling to her. The warrior plunges her hands beneath the surface, splashing shimmers and liquid against her armor, over her face, stars swimming in her eyes and she needs to feel more. Her feet lead her down down down, unto the waters of forever, liquid life to her body and Loki follows her, seeking the same. It soaks through her leathers and armor, tingling brilliant-bright against her skin as it soaks through the fabric, making and breaking and making her again and Sif brings the water dripping and silent to her lips once more, consuming and consumed, diving beneath the surface.

Above the water, everything is silent, stars glimmering and mists floating like fireflies, gentle and still; but beneath it Sif hears the whispers of souls as ancient as _móðir_ Yggdrasill herself, and those who have not yet been born, have not yet come from the Allthing to live and die and live again, eternal as the glitter of the World Tree in the skies of all the Realms. Voices flutter past her ears like butterflies, brushing feather-light against her senses in tongues she knows and does not as the waters carry her, hold her, surround her.

Sif looks to Loki beneath the water, vision as clear as if she were above the surface, and the God of Mischief's eyes are brilliant with the magick the warrior tastes on her teeth, feels pooled in her belly. They have no need for breath in the World Tree's depths, and Sif grabs the leather of his collar, crushing her lips to his, tasting the Allthing on his tongue, drinking eternity down her throat.

The God of Mischief pushes them both to the surface, water dripping from the golden horns of his helm, Yggdrasill's magick coursing like rapids beneath his skin. Sif wipes the glittering water from her eyes, smoothing her hair out of her face, echoes of the Allthing whispering over her skin, sliding down her spine. She pulls the God of Mischief close, falling back along the edge of the pool, the glimmering silver flowers of the Great _Móðir_ thick and tall beside them. Sif feels their armor and clothes melt away like the water dripping down her arms, Loki's magick vibrant and burning in the Branches.

His kisses are ice and diamonds on her lips, frantic with want and need and she is overcome by the sensations glittering in her bones and sparking beneath her curled toes. Here she is eternal, the lines of her being blurred with those of _móðir_ Yggdrasill's, those unborn and reborn sliding against the edges of her mind, pulling her down, stretching her thin. Loki's hands on her body are wild, touching her as if she were on fire and frozen solid and liquid beneath his fingers, everything he can taste and touch and so much more.

The God of Mischief throws one of her legs over his shoulder, kissing down her neck and between her collarbones, flicking his tongue over her nipples and Sif's voice is not her own, her hands feel Loki and not-Loki through his disheveled hair, and when he enters her they are One, the Allthing a river beneath them, spread out amidst the stars.

She comes in seconds, the waters of the Great _Móðir_ are tears slipping from her eyes, it's too much and not enough and Sif buries her cries in Loki's throat, swallowing his own as he finishes, drinking of him and everything and nothing and all things in-between, this act the highest gift they can give in the World Tree's honor.  
  
Yggdrasill darkens to a pinpoint, a single star in an inky pool of black, and then she is gone.

 

Sif wakes to the sound of dripping water, the quiet noise of distant waterfalls lingering in her ears. She is naked, lying on the edge of the cavern pool, its water lapping at her skin in the dim light of what now must be evening, she thinks. She should be cold, she remembers the caves being as frozen as the mountain snows, but somehow she is warm, brilliantly so. The warrior lifts her head to see Loki, eyes glimmering with magick made eternal by the World Tree, metal and leather and cloth reformed upon his body once more. His hands trail through the golden dragon's mane of hair, and she can see their words in its eyes, their silent communication unknown to her.

At this the God of Mischief turns, leaving the dragon to help her stand, her legs shaking with the afterthought of their time upon Yggdrasill, her belly tingling at the memory and her mind vibrating with energy, the waters of the Allthing fresh on her tongue.

“Loki,” she says, and she feels his name slip from her mind to his own, his concern for her, the hum of power buried in his body, all these things and more she feels, feels in her belly and her bones and she doesn't know how.

“ _Móðir_ Yggdrasill,” he responds and the warrior hears his voice in her ears and her head and it's enough to make her melt, malleable in this newfound sensation, the imprint of the God of Mischief written behind her eyes like his runes.

 _Is this what it is like to speak to the dragons_? she asks, and his _já_ is like a wave coming over her, the spark of a fire that burns in her mind. _This is her gift_ , Sif thinks, and peace comes warm on her tongue, a cloak around her shoulders, Loki's magick making her armor shimmer into place, leather and cloth soft against her skin.

The God of Mischief takes her hand, leading her from the pool of water, and Sif turns her gaze to watch it as they leave, the flickering image of a stag floating on the water until the dim light from the roof fades, and everything turns dark.

 

The light of Álfheimr's three moons is brilliant bright when they emerge from the caverns, the golden dragon glittering beside them. The mountain winds pinch the warrior's cheeks red with the cold, and the Branches high in the sky are like rivers of platinum woven within marble, splashed across the sky as if by a painter's hand, speckled with pinpoint stars. The clouds have cleared for the moment, and Sif can see for hundreds of miles, mountains and rock sloping into gentle valleys, cliff-sides and fjords dipping down in the fields and shores, water lapping eternal at the sands, unto forever, and Sif hears the Great _Móðir_ calling to her in the movements of the waves.

“Have you visited her before?” the warrior asks, her voice drowned by the vast expanse of rock and snow around them.

“It is from Yggdrasill that I learned all I know now,” Loki says, the name quiet and reverent on his tongue. “There are far more ways to walk the Branches than the waters of the caves of the _Hithaeglir_.”

“Is that how you knew the way though it has been centuries since you were last here?”

“There are far more Branches weaved amidst the Realms than can be seen in the sky,” Loki responds. “But where they cannot be seen they can be felt; the magick of the World Tree is powerful enough.”

“I feel,” and Sif pauses, gaze turned to her feet, unsure of where in her multitude of thoughts to begin. “I feel something, or perhaps everything. The sturdiness of the rocks beneath my feet, the lapping of the waves on distant shores, the calm of the forests and the animals that flicker through the grasses. I feel Álfheimr alive beneath me, her children living and dying.” Sif turns towards Loki, speechless, unsure of how to process everything at once.

“You feel the world at your fingertips,” Loki explains, “the breath of the universe is your own, you are all things and all things are now you; thought made word made flesh, the waters of the Allthing in your veins like blood.”

Sif pulls the God of Mischief down, crushing his mouth to hers and she can feel him, powerful and predatory and needy on her tongue, vibrant beneath her fingers, his heartbeat her own, and when she digs deeper she feels the waters of the Great _Móðir_ , icy and burning in both their minds, unending.

When she climbs the golden dragon Sif can feel her, bright and burning, and when she spreads her wings the warrior's mind stretches with them across the stars, and with Loki she is at peace.

 

 

 _roads go ever ever on_  
 _under cloud and under star_  
 _yet feet that wandering have gone_  
 _turn at last to home afar_  
 _eyes that fire and sword have seen_  
 _and horror in the halls of stone_  
 _look at last on meadows green_  
 _and trees and hills they long have known_  
                      - j. .r . r. tolkien – _the hobbit_

**Author's Note:**

>  _álfheimr_ – old norse form of the anglicized 'alfheim', 'elfame', 'elfland', and many other variations.
> 
>  _álfar_ – old norse plural of _álfr_ , meaning 'elves'.
> 
>  _yggdrasill_ \- old norse form of the anglicized 'yggdrasil'.
> 
>  _móðir_ \- old norse for 'mother'.
> 
>  _hithaeglir_ – the _sindarin_ name of the misty mountains of middle-earth; tolkien's worldbuilding inspired many things in this fic.
> 
>  _ásgarðr_ \- old norse form of the anglicized 'asgard', meaning 'enclosure of the æsir'.
> 
>  _svaðilfari_ \- in norse mythology, the stallion that impregnated loki (in the form of a mare), who later gave birth to the eight-legged sleipnir; like in the mythology, in the thor movie, odin is seen riding on an eight-legged horse, a nod to sleipnir and his role as odin's mount; svaðilfari in the fic is loki's mare, another nod to mythology.
> 
>  _lóriði_ \- sif's stallion, yet another mythological nod, but in name only; lóriði was the name of one of thor and sif's many children in norse mythology.
> 
>  _heimdallr_ \- old norse form of the anglicized 'heimdall'.
> 
>  _jǫtnar_ \- old norse plural of _jötunn_.
> 
>  _eldjǫtnar_ – the fire giants of _múspellsheimr_.
> 
>  _landvættir_ \- “land wights”; spirits in norse mythology and germanic neopaganism that protect areas of land and help them flourish; the area can be as small as a rock or as large as an entire country.
> 
>  _hreindýri_ \- old norse for 'reindeer'.
> 
>  _já_ \- old norse for 'yes'.
> 
>  _miðsumarr_ \- old norse for 'midsummer'.


End file.
